


Early Sunsets

by Slim Shady (NoraPenblood)



Category: Total Drama
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, M/M, Zombie AU, face horror, shit son this is gory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoraPenblood/pseuds/Slim%20Shady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody really expects it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slippage

**Author's Note:**

> slippage - noun \ˈsli-pij\  
> 1: an act, instance, or process of slipping
> 
> 2: a loss in transmission of power
> 
> 3: The act of skin sliding off of muscle

Chris was dead asleep when the security alarm started going off. He tugged the pillow over his head and groaned loudly, rolling onto his side and kicking Chef in the leg until the other man finally stirred. " _Cheeeef_.... Chef, go get it..."

Chef growled out a curse, slapping him in the arm to get him to stop before finally sitting up and rubbing one eye. He was about to tell Chris to get the door his own damn self, but his eyes found the blinding red light of the alarm clock and the fact that it read only 4:00 AM just drained the energy right out of him. He slung his legs out of the bed and rubbed at the back of his sore neck before standing up. It wasn't a long walk down the stairs and into the kitchen, but he managed to trip twice and almost fall down the damn steps right after.

He was scowling something serious when he finally reached the source of that godawful screeching, mashing in the code with his eyes half shut against the light pouring in through the glass. He screwed up the combination twice before he finally managed to shut it up. Relishing the new-found silence, he tugged up the sagging waistband of his underpants and turned to look out the window to see if there really was any kind of "threat". 

What Chef expected to see there was a wayward raccoon, maybe even an upended trash can. What he did _not_ expect to see was a relatively familiar teenager shuffling lazily across the wooden deck. His motions were staggered and his left leg appeared to be pretty seriously fucked up. He couldn't find the kid's name off the top of his head, and something about the way he was acting made him all kinds of uncomfortable.

"What the fuck..." He muttered under his breath, reaching over to the side of doorjamb where Chris insisted they keep a baseball bat. ("It's for protection! What if you're not here, huh?") He wrapped his fingers around the wooden handle, slowly hefting it over his shoulder. Just in case, he thought. In case this kid had done bath salts or some shit and tried to have Chef's face for dinner. He was not dealing with stoned kids tonight - it was between seasons and he was on fucking vacation.

He'd been steeling himself to go out and confront the kid, hesitating both on the front of not wanting to walk outside in his underpants and also because the way the dude was acting seriously creeped him out.

He was snapped right out of the daze he was in -staring at the kid as he bumped into the rail and opened his mouth, making a sound that Chef couldn't hear and slowly rotating around so he could continue his awkward pacing - when he heard the sounds of shuffling footsteps coming from behind him. He reacted mainly on instinct, spinning around and raising the bat, ready to swing it at the offending person when he realized it was just Chris. Chris, standing behind him and looking both exhausted and mildly confused.

"Jesus, man, give me a heart attack!" Chef tried to keep his voice low, not wanting to attract the attention of the teenager on the porch.

Chris raised an eyebrow, trying to finger-comb his hair into submission. "What're you doin'? Is someone out there?" He shuffled around him, trying to get a look out the window. He squinted, immediately recognizing the kid for who he was. "What's Noah doing here?"

"I don't know, man, he's acting we-"

"Noah. Dude." Chris was moving without really listening to Chef, intent on dealing with this himself. After all, it was his job to deal with kids, wasn't it? And he knew Noah better than he'd ever really known any of the other contestants. He could handle this.

 

As soon as the door had opened, Noah turned around, tilting his head slightly and letting his jaw hang lax as he found something moving in his line of sight. It'd become starkly hard to see, but his head was too fuzzy to even really be aware of that. All he knew was that he was hungry and he could smell something there where that moving thing was. It smelt like sweat and maybe there was even blood under there somewhere and _that_ was something he would definitely like. He started to shuffle forward, his movements slow and impeded by his shattered fibula. He didn't know where he'd gotten the injury, but then again, he was also very narrowly aware that it existed in the first place.

"Chris..." Chef was hesitating in the doorway, but Chris seemed to be ignoring him in any case. This wasn't looking too good.

Chris narrowed his eyes as Noah started shuffling towards him, finally taking in that there was clearly something off about the way he was acting. His expression was blank, brown eyes now cloudy and unseeing. There was dried blood smeared across his mouth, and upon closer inspection his tongue had been mangled and lay in a mess of dried blood and gore behind his teeth. Not to mention the obvious way he was limping.

 

As a matter of fact, when he looked a little more closely, the kid wasn't acting like himself at all. Sure, Noah had always been pretty apathetic, but this was on a whole other level. Hell, he didn't even seem to be registering his own injuries. Chris took a reflexive step backward, stumbling slightly. "Uh... Noah? Man,what's the matter with you?" His voice wavered slightly as the teenager starts moving faster, very nearly charging at him. He found himself frozen momentarily, eyes wide. Everything seemed to move slower, and he managed to reel backwards far enough that he avoided the crooked teeth that were about to snap closed on his nose.

He reached out on instinct, shoving him back with both hands. He could feel flesh squelch beneath his fingers, cold wetness soaking through the layers of Noah's clothes and wetting his palms. Immediately he could smell him - like something ripe and old; roadkill that'd set out in the sun. He gagged dryly, eyes wide in horror as he heard something wet and fleshy sounding drop to the wood planks of the porch.

Time was moving horribly slowly, even as he felt a strong arm wrap around his waist and yank him backwards. He was spun around in a clumsy pirrouhette, the treeline blurring in nauseating shades of grey alongside the look on Noah's grey, bloody face. He couldn't get the feeling of flesh sleucing off bone out of his head - it felt like there was meat stuck to his hands and god, this was some kind of fucking nightmare, right? He felt himself being shoved bodily into the house, his toe catching on the bottom of the doorway and making him stumble. His head was spinning, not quite processing all the things that were currently happening.

He could hear Chef yelling something, but the words were foreign to him. The door slammed and the latch was yanked into place and then he could hear a hissing, rattling shriek, like some kind of dying animal, before there was a thud against the glass of the door. Chris found himself on his hands and knees, staring down at the black and white tiles of his kitchen floor just before he emptied his stomach onto them. He couldn't get that fucking _feeling_  off his skin, like he'd stuck his hands into a bowl of raw meat.

Shaking slightly himself, Chef put a hand on his shoulder and wiped his sweaty hair back from his forehead. "Alright, alright, c'mon." He lifted him up slowly, dragging him back to keep his knees out of the vomit in the floor. Chris took a few shaky steps, clinging onto Chef as he led him over to a kitchen chair. He slumped back, his wide eyes going immediately to the door, where he could see Noah crushing his face against the glass. He had his mouth against the windowpane, mangled tongue leaving clots of gore smeared over the previously pristine glass. His skin seemed to have all the cohesiveness of wet paper, lips splitting around his teeth and sluggishly spilling more blood, staining his teeth and gums.

 

Chris felt another wave of nausea wash over him, pressing his fingers to his mouth as Noah pulled back and smashed his face into the door once again, this time crushing his nose with an absolutely sickening sound. It was so horrific and Chris could swear he could still _smell_  the rot from here - in fact, he could almost taste it - and that was when he came to the even worse realization that he had _touched_  him. He looked down at his hands, pulling his shaking fingers away from his lips only to see them stained a dark burgundy.

The wretching was immediate and violent, Chris bending over between his own knees and gagging up bile until his stomach was empty and aching and he could do nothing but dry heave. He squeezed his watery eyes shut, snot running down his face and puke and drool on his chin. Chef was standing beside him, one hand on his back once again as he kept a wary eye on the door. Every time Chris would see fit to look up again, all he could see was the growing gore on the glass, the way Noah's entire cheek seemed to have dislocated itself from his face and now clung wetly to the window, every vein apparent, the sticky yellow of fat visible even from here. Everything was glistening in the light from the porch and it was something even Chef had a hard time looking at. He'd seen people blown to pieces in the war, seen the insides of many people that had been whole moments before, but this... This was like a nightmare, where the dead weren't still yet.

Noah was still moving, even as Chris cradled his head in his hands and let out a raw, frightened sob. This was too much. He'd thought about killing these kids every day since the beginning, but this was different. This was wrong - for one, he was still _alive_. He was tearing his own face off as if it was fucking play-doh and he was still moving, like it was nothing. He cleared his throat, letting out a choked sound before he spoke. "Chef, is this a joke? Is this- you win, okay? You win, man, you're a fuckin' sadistic asshole and this is... _This is over the top."_

Chef was startled by the sound of Chris's voice, wrapped up in the horrific wet thuds that were coming from the door. "Chris, believe me, I wish I was making this up." He drew a deep breath and rubbed between his shoulders, hoping Noah was getting close to wearing himself out. At the very least, the blood on the window was managing to obscure his mutilated face from view.

He was about to say more when the sound of glass cracking echoed hollowly through the room. Both men stiffened, Chris clenching his eyes closed tighter and Chef standing up straight, ready to fight if he had to.

Noah had managed to slam his forehead into the door hard enough to leave a spiderweb of cracks radiating from where it impacted. Even as Chef grabbed for the bat he'd dropped, the window shattered, scattering the kitchen floor with shards of blood-stained glass. Chris let out a panicked yell, leaning back in his chair as a mangled, yowling teenager now stuck his head into the kitchen. Noah had flayed off the skin on the left side of his face, exposing teeth and the white of bone underneath. He gnashed his teeth, blood and drool running down his chin in a foam.

It was instinct that had Chef moving, not Chris's panicked shouting for him to "Get him out!" He skirted the majority of the mess that was the kitchen floor, grimacing when his foot landed in a pool of vomit. God _damnit_. He didn't give himself time to react, though, bringing the bat down with a horrible crack on the back of Noah's head. He gave a final shriek, his body spasming violently, a piece of glass that'd embedded itself in his forehead rattling free and going skittering along the tiles even as he slumped down.

Noah stayed suspended in the doorway briefly, his body trying to decide which side it wanted to fall on. Inevitably, gravity won out and he, thankfully, fell backward - although he did leave a sizable strip of skin on the window itself. Chef was panting, his eyes wide and fingers shaking as he white-knuckled the bat in his hand. He stood there for a few moments, staring blankly as the hole in the window. There was a clump of dark hair stuck to the bat and it was dripping quietly as he stood.

Chris was trembling violently, staring in disbelief as Chef. He'd seen the man angry before, but he'd never seen him like that. Never seen that kind of cold, concise action. He stood on wobbly legs, wanting to get closer to the man who was doing his best to protect him. He shuffled blindly along the kitchen floor, not at all moving with the sort of knowledge the other man had. He stepped directly on a sliver of gore-stained glass, the sharp edge embedding itself deep in his heel.

"God _fucking_  damn! Shit!" He balked, stumbling back and lifting his foot, trying to see what he'd stomped on. Chef spun around, eyes wide and clearly ready to fuck up whatever other threat had entered the scene. When he saw Chris clutching his foot, though, he let out a dry laugh.

"...Chris. Oh my god, you fucking- you idiot." He shook his head and dropped the bat to the floor with a hollow clunk, turning and walking over to him, pulling him closer so he could look at the injury. "Stepped in the fucking glass."

 "I didn't do it on purpose!" Chris was trying for indignant, but his voice was hoarse and watery from all the vomiting and screaming he'd been doing. Chef laughed at him again, slightly off-hysterical, and drug him back to a chair.

"It's not a big deal." Chef muttered. He had bigger things to worry about right now, anyway. Like the dead kid in the doorway and the kitchen floor and the fact that he'd almost certainly _killed him_. That last thought hit him like a ton of bricks, making his breathing falter as his eyes landed on the viscous puddle of black blood resting in front of the destroyed front door.

God, not again. Not this again.

It was going to be a very long day.

 

 

 


	2. Lonely, But Not For Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loneliness does things to a person, especially if that person is used to constant attention.

Topher had been walking in these goddamned woods for what felt like a million years. He'd been relatively safe in the little cafe he'd taken up shelter in, but safety did not necessitate comfort. And when a kid like Topher had lived in the spotlight as long as he had, the lonliness was bound to get to you. 

As he walked, his phone dead in his pocket and backpack full of absolutely useless junk and about half a dozen fruit pies from the cafe, he kept expecting someone to step out from behind a tree and tell him he'd done a good job, that the show was a hit and he was a star now. Hell, he'd been hearing shit since he left his home town. He'd lost track of the date when his phone went off, and he still tried compulsively checking it every five minutes. 

When the realization that no one would be coming to save him finally dawned, it was getting dark and cold and he still only had the barest idea of where he was going. "Eat my entire ass, Chris McLean." He said softly into the night as rain began to fall. It was the most tragic thing he'd ever done and he wished there was a camera there to capture it, even as the absurdity of it was occurring to him. He wanted Chris, he decided, as his back began to ache from leaning against the tree for so long. Chris would understand what it was like to be so beautiful no one could stand you. Chris would be there for him.

He fell asleep at some point, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle and his bag clutched tight to his chest. When he woke up, he felt absolutely disgusting, his neck creaking and his jaw popping as he made an attempt at sitting up. Rubbing one eye, he glanced around sluggishly. He fucking hated this forest, and he hated the bugs, and he hated having to sleep up against trees and under bushes like some kind of animal. 

At first glance, he assumed he was alone, as he had been since the beginning. That is, until his vision focused on the hunched, grumbling shape that was crouching in front of him. He'd run into his fair share of the undead already, but all the same, he preferred avoiding them to the alternative. It wasn't that he wasn't strong enough to fight - he'd kept himself toned, it was good for the image - he just preferred to keep himself from getting any filthier than he already was. 

He pressed his back to the tree, clutching the strap of his bag as if it would somehow offer protection. Maybe if he was still enough, the thing wouldn't see him. Yeah, that'd probably work. He blinked slowly, eyes wide and pupils huge in the near pitch-black of the forest.

The only real light was provided by the moon and it glittered ominously off the cold grey of the creature's eyes. It's hair was a nest of black tangles, matted and clinging to the side of it's skull. There was a long gash running down the side of it's head, crusted over with dark blood and swollen. His whole body was bloated, stinking of carrion.  
The longer Topher sat there, watching the monster stare with glazed eyes, the more sick he began to feel. Every time the wind blew, the scent was carried to him, making his empty stomach flip. He couldn't puke, though. That'd give him away and no doubt he'd be dead before he managed to sit up all the way. 

It was a very long time, what felt like hours, before the creature seemed to catch wind of something more interesting to stare at. It let out a gurgling groan and shifted, lumbering off in the direction of some unfortunate deer or chipmunk. Topher sat there for a few minutes after the shadow of it had gone, drawing in deep lungfuls of the now clear air. His stomach calmed down, thankfully, and he allowed himself to relax. 

"Fucking zombies... This is so stupid." He muttered to himself, slowly standing and slinging the bag onto his shoulder. After a moment, he reached up and started finger-combing his hair. He'd broken his real comb shortly after he left home (He didn't cry about that. He absolutely did not.) and the last time he'd tried using the hair gel he'd brought without being able to wash his hands had left him with an absolute mess, bits of grass and needles from the trees stuck in his hair for a week.  
He looked around, watching the forest slowly wake up - the darkness shifting subtly to a blueish light that signified dawn was coming - and felt nothing but disgust. He did not want to be out here. He did not want to be awake this goddamned early. He did /not/ want to be hiding from zombies and bears like some kind of fucking woodland creature. This was absolute bullshit and he wanted a refund. 

As he continued to complain to himself he started walking, still unsure of where he was going. He knew Chris had a cabin in this direction, somewhere, and that almost guaranteed that he would find someone who appreciated him. Chris McLean was the only person he could rely on right now. Someone equally (okay, maybe not /equally/) as good-looking, probably equally as distressed about the end of all the civilized world. A shoulder to cry on. A shoulder to dig his teeth into, to claim...  
He cleared his throat, the apples of his cheeks reddening as he considered all the things he'd be able to do with Chris, alone in the middle of the woods... He could have him stretched out beneath him, finally able to claim the man- the god -that he'd always had such an obsession with. He ached to wrap his thin, perfect fingers around his throat and squeezing until his eyes rolled back and his lips turned so perfectly, kissably blue... He couldn't help the quiet little laugh that escaped him. Yeah, this was definitely the right direction. Maybe this whole end-of-the-world bullshit wasn't so bad after all. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, letting his fingers play over the smooth back of his phone, and started to hum to himself as he walked.

It was late in the day and he was down a total of two stale pies and a single water bottle when he finally came across a clearing. There were birds chirping loudly in the trees and every time a squirrel or something would rush through the underbrush Topher would freeze in place, staring at the bushes until he was sure he wasn't about to be cornered.  
He glanced around the clearing, squinting a bit in the suddenly uninterrupted sunlight, and finally saw the exact thing he'd been dreaming of. Nestled just inside of the woods on the other side of the patch of sunlight was a neat little cabin, painted tastefully white with a little deck out front. It was lovely, he decided. The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and just like it had been in the pictures on the fansites. This was Chris McLean's vacation home and no doubt where Chris was at the moment, this time of the year.

He briefly worried that Chris might already be dead, but brushed the thought off. If Topher could survive in the woods, alone, then Chris could survive all by himself in his own home. They were practically the same person, after all. And here he was, coming to give Chris a little much-needed company.

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Chref.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks for reading!! If you liked this, my blog is striderfvcker.tumblr.com
> 
> My SFW ao3 account is http://archiveofourown.org/users/striderfvcker/pseuds/striderfvcker
> 
> and if you feel like buying me a coffee: [Buy Me a Coffee](https://ko-fi.com/A850LD4)


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